


All Bark

by Yurusarenai (iwantcandy2)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Collars, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pet Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwantcandy2/pseuds/Yurusarenai
Summary: Jaskier makes a request, and it does not go as anticipated.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	All Bark

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom, no idea what to expect.

Geralt is all bark and no bite.

“If you want a dog, nothing is stopping you from going out and getting one.”

The White Wolf bares a canine as he says this, but Jaskier knows it’s all for show. Okay, most of it is for show. Actually, scratch that, he isn’t actually sure whether Geralt is genuinely pissed or this is just his usual resistance to anything… _fun._ The bard could very well be poking the sleeping bear.

Because Geralt may be all bark and no bite, but he’s also long silences and cold shoulders. He’s ‘I can’t deal with this shit right now, try again later’ anytime Jaskier tries to push him into doing something new, unfamiliar. Geralt isn’t afraid of bears or botchlings or all the masses of the damned rising from their graves, but when it comes to intimacy he is, to be blunt, a bit of a weenie.

“Come on, you know I don’t want a dog.”

“Not when you have me?” Geralt raises one eyebrow, and for all his shortness of words, his expressions have always been so easy to read. 

People are suspicious of Geralt, and it’s a suspicion he reflects back at the world, a predisposition to expect the worst of everyone around him. He doesn’t trust easy—much like a mongrel that’s been kicked one too many times.

“You are certainly a great deal more work than the average dog. Perhaps slightly better smell to you. Probably equivalent conversation skills.”

Geralt makes a sound that is somewhere between a huff of exasperation and a growl of warning. 

Yes, Jaskier is poking the bear indeed, but he can’t stop now. Tomorrow night they will make it to the next town over, and Geralt will get them separate rooms at the inn and he will miss his chance. Geralt _always_ insists on getting them separate rooms, and Jaskier tries not to let it bother him. It’s one more way he’s guarded, one more thing he doesn’t want anyone else to see. Only out here in the wilds, just them and nature and whatever horrific beast they are going to run into next, does Geralt let down his guard enough to share even a shred of this tricky thing called a ‘relationship.’

With a pouty sigh, Jaskier says, “Well, if you really don’t want to, I can’t force you—”

“A fact we are both aware of.”

“—but I really, really, REALLY want to give it a try.”

“Why?”

One word from Geralt and it’s Jaskier’s turn to feel slightly uncomfortable. Yes, he supposes he owes the man an explanation for his unusual request, and he knows that if it isn’t satisfactory this evening will end with them sleeping on opposite ends of the fire. Because hidden in that one word is the assumption that is half-correct. If he plays a poor hand at this, well, Geralt won’t bite, but he will be hurt, and the man prefers to lick his wounds in solitary.

“I think it would be… good for you,” Jaskier explains, choosing words carefully.

“Good for me?”

There it is again, the distinct raising of hackles. Jaskier supposes it’s only fair. He really should have started this _with_ the explanation, and then proceeded to the request afterwards. But, well, when he gets excited sometimes he just can’t help himself, and his mouth is more skilled in song than guile. How is he to explain that his request came not from a desire for degradation, but because he can see the constant tension in Geralt’s frame when the clothes come off? The man is altogether too self-conscious about his scars, his mutations, his temperament. That last one might be justified, as it has almost scared Jaskier away from time to time. But the other two?

“You’re always so caught up when we fuck,” Jaskier says. “I want you to relax and be yourself is all.”

Geralt’s face darkens, and that is how Jaskier knows he has said the wrong thing. (Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps there was some bite to Geralt after all.)

“So when you asked if I would get down on all fours and act like a dog for you, you think that is ‘being myself?’”

There’s ten times the normal amount of scorn in his voice, which given Geralt’s default level of scorn, is really saying something. And yes, Jaskier understands where he is coming from, that the scorn is a defense mechanism, an alternative to showing hurt.

“I don’t think of you as an animal,” Jaskier defends.

“Hm.”

“That’s not what this is!”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. Of course _now_ Jaskier understands why maybe this request isn’t going over so well, but it’s too late to backtrack. The only way is through, and gods, he’s probably going to be sleeping alone for a month after this.

“Geralt, you know I don’t think of you that way—”

“Strange request, then, don’t you think? Or do you ask all your partners to sit and beg for you?”

“I don’t see you as an animal,” Jaskier defends, “but sometimes it feels like… you see yourself that way.”

Geralt’s expression remains unchanged: the same unimpressed glower. However, his fist clenches at his side. He always does that when Jaskier is right about something and he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“It’s up to you,” Jaskier says. “I just thought it might be easier for you if you didn’t have to worry about all the people stuff. You know, the talking and the feelings and all the stuff you’re bad at.”

There’s a twist to Geralt’s mouth that Jaskier hasn’t seen before. The bard keeps careful catalogue of all his partner’s expressions, which isn’t that hard of a task, seeing as there aren’t that many of them. But this is a newcomer, and he can’t quite parse what it could mean.

Finally, Geralt says slowly, “Let’s get one thing clear: I am not a dog. If you want an animal, you’re getting a wolf.”

That sounded dangerously close to agreement.

“As long as I can still call you good boy,” Jaskier replies, “and rub behind your ears, I don’t care if you want to be a purple-spotted pony.”

“Hm. Might change your mind once I get my teeth into you.”

Looking him squarely in the eyes, Jaskier intones back solemnly, “Never.”

* * *

There is something undeniably feral about the sight of an unclothed Geralt. His hide is mottled with scars, his stance slightly widened as if preparing to pounce. While they’ve long passed the point of being new to each other, Jaskier is always slightly in awe of just what an impressive figure his lover cuts. 

“Collar or no?” Jaskier asks. 

“How long have you been planning this, exactly?” Geralt asks, eyeing the leather band. 

“I picked it up in the last village, when I first decided to ask you.”

Reaching out, Geralt takes the collar, turning it over as if he expects it to be laced with poison or something. He eyes Jaskier, and the bard clasps his hands in front of him and pouts. It’s an unfair tactic, really, because Geralt has no defense for Jaskier’s pouty face. 

“Fine,” the man grumbles, slipping the collar around his neck and buckling it. It’s an obsidian slash across his throat, highlighting the tendon in stark contrast. 

Now that he is properly adorned, Geralt sinks down onto all fours. Jaskier’s stomach does a little flippity-flop at the sight. He’ll never, never tell it, but sometimes Geralt’s over-serious face reminds him of the wrinkled visage of a hound dog. 

“Who’s a good boy?” Jaskier coos, hands on his knees. “You’re a good boy! Come over here for your pats.”

If anything, Geralt’s scowl deepens. However, he obeys, shuffling forward. When Jaskier holds out his hand, for one second Geralt looks like he might bite it. However, despite bared fangs, he deigns to give it a little sniff. He holds very still as Jaskier cards through his hair, playing with bone-bleached locks that have grown far too long. 

“You’re a shaggy little guy, aren’t you?” Jaskier says, ruffling the hair. “Someone needs to give you a cut.”

His playmate huffs, and Jaskier would bet a bottle of wine he has some sort of snippy comeback that he isn’t allowed to voice so long as he’s playing the part of the pet. That might be the best of all: right now Geralt can’t argue with him. That means Jaskier can say all the things that have been on his mind for a while without rebuttal from the grumpy man, and absolutely is he going to take advantage of that opportunity. 

“You’re precious, you know that?” Jaskier grabs a fistful of cheek in either hand and squishes. “You’re just a big ol’ baby. You’re _my_ big ol’ baby, and you know I’m gonna love you until you die. Isn’t that right?”

The look on Geralt’s face is not amused. Speaking might be forbidden, but Jaskier can read the writing on his face. ‘Get to the point already,’ it says. ‘I’m here for a fuck, not a pep talk.’

Then Jaskier leans in and does what he’s craved for a long time: he places a single kiss to Geralt’s forehead. It is an expression more tender than the open-mouthed kisses of passion, and one he knows the man would usually rebuff. The Witcher’s body stiffens, shocked like struck with a bolt from the blue. Underneath his lips, Jaskier feels that face heat hot. 

Yes, this was an excellent idea. 

Geralt does not seem to agree. He rises up, hands coming to push Jaskier down. There’s a rumble in that chest, deep like draconid, and it reverberates through Jaskier where they are suddenly pressed together, Geralt’s broad chest to his back. Puppy is gone, and White Wolf is in its place. That, too, is an exhilarating rush. 

Jaskier has dealt with his fair share of beasts on the road. Like all with a scrap of good sense, he fears the wild things that live in the woods. However, he does not fear Geralt. The man is not a beast, not for all his posturing and wish that the world will see him as one. No, he is completely in control of himself, which is why Jaskier lets him have this victory. 

Usually the Witcher is hesitant with his partners. There’s a deep fear of the too far in him, of actually letting go and enjoying himself and hurting someone in the process. However, he lets himself go now, panting deep and heavy as he ruts against the man pinned beneath him. Even his unfocused movements are powerful, a wave crashing over Jaskier, making it hard for him to stay upright. He doesn’t ask for quarter. Maybe he can’t keep up with Geralt in a fight, but in fucking he can take as good as the Witcher can give. 

Warm breath on his neck turns into a kiss—or something like it. There’s perhaps too much fang for it to be called kiss, the prick and press of eyeteeth testing his skin. 

“You’re being a bad dog,” Jaskier reprimands, even though he doesn’t mean it. No, Geralt is being a very good dog, indeed. 

His member slides lower, slipping underneath Jaskier to glide against the hapless bard’s own. That is the difference in size between them: Geralt has his mouth at Jaskier’s neck, and still length enough to reach down and grind their cocks together. Jaskier does his best to rub back, but really it is miracle enough that he stays upright. 

In the end, it’s not the feel of Geralt’s warm cock that does it, nor the man’s steel muscles sliding against his back. No, it’s Geralt biting down, sinking his teeth into the scoop of flesh between shoulder and neck, that pushes Jaskier over the edge. He comes with an ineloquent warble (still very on tune, though) all across the stone beneath them. Geralt gives something that might be a chuckle or a snarl, felt rather than heard as it vibrates where his teeth are still embedded in his bedmate. 

Finally, Geralt disentangles them, teeth popping loose, sitting back on his haunches.

“So?” he asks. “Was that everything you ever dreamed?”

“And more,” Jaskier replies, batting his eyes. “What about you? Was it as horrible as you thought it would be?”

“...No.”

Jaskier preens. There’s no sense in hiding how smug he is. 

“And? Would you do it again?”

“Hn.” Geralt glares again, but there’s no fire to it. “I guess I wouldn’t be opposed to it, once in a while. For you.”

“Right,” Jaskier says back, grinning. “For me.”

Sometimes it’s easier to just play along with the lies, especially when they both know the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, you can [share the Twitter version.](https://twitter.com/Yurusarenai3/status/1353810287779000320?s=20)
> 
> Not sure if I'll write more like this. Honestly who the hell knows what I'm doing with my life at this point?


End file.
